


Pleasantly Stable

by touchedglitter



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchedglitter/pseuds/touchedglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull bets Dorian he can outdrink him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasantly Stable

**Author's Note:**

> I've taken some liberties with canon here - regarding, in particular, the timing of Dorian and Iron Bull's first encounter (suggesting that it was not _immediately_ after a night of ill-considered drinking)

It started with a bet.

No, wait. It started with a drink.

No, wait. It started with a dragon. That fucking high dragon. Dorian was very proud of the fact that he had faced that terrible beast without shitting himself. And really, not shitting himself was really the most that could reasonably be requested in such a situation, so the fact that he had also actually contributed to the battle was a bonus.

Bull, on the other hand, well… He’d clearly either fought a dragon before, or had spent his whole life fantasizing about doing so. Probably the latter.

The adrenaline was still running high when they got back to Skyhold, and Bull had proposed celebratory drinks. “None for me, thanks,” the Inquisitor had answered. “I’ll sleep heavily enough as it is.”

But Dorian rarely turned down drinks. And that was how he found himself in the Herald’s Rest, gulping down something Bull had called “Maraas-Lok” and using every bit of energy he could muster to keep a straight face rather than puckering his lips, widening his eyes, and screaming about the burn it sent down his throat. But then, you weren’t the son of Halward Pavus if you didn’t know how to tell lies with your expression alone.

“Impressive,” Bull practically shouted. “Usually the first sip doesn’t go down so easy.”

“Well, you said it yourself, we ‘Vints’ are practically pickled.” Dorian raised his empty glass to Bull.

“I can see there will have to be a new wrinkle to keep tonight interesting,” Iron Bull had said as he refilled Dorian’s glass. “A wager.”

“Oh dear.”

“I didn’t realize we were at the pet name stage, but that’s sweet.”

“No, I didn’t mean -” Dorian sighed, realizing his protests were bound to be ineffectual. “What’s the bet?”

“That I can put away more tankards of this than you can.” Iron Bull smiled broadly. He clearly thought he was rigging this game.

“And the stake?” Dorian rubbed his eyelids as though this were too much to bear, but it was a bluff. The stuff had been stiff, and Bull was rather… well, massive, so probably had a higher natural tolerance for drink… But Dorian was trained. He was practically a hero of the tavern, a champion of the tankard. He could win this bet. If the stake was worth it.

“A single kiss.” Bull looked directly into Dorian’s eyes. How could he look in both of Dorian’s eyes when he only had one? And yet he did.

“Here? But people don’t - it’s not -” Dorian stifled a groan. All of his wit and cleverness seemed to abandon him as soon as anything surprised him.

“It doesn’t have to be here. We can go to your chamber. Or mine. Or the stables - no, we don’t want to disturb Blackwall. But we can find a place… somewhere private, if you prefer…” Bull’s voice was quiet now, low enough that even Krem, sitting on his other side, wouldn’t hear.

“I don’t -”

“The bet’s only on if you say it’s on, Twinkle. You like that? That’s the name I came up with for you. Because you do magic. And it’s all sparky, you know? Oh, shit. I should’ve gone with Sparky. Never too late for a new nickname, though, if you like that better.”

“Dorian will be fine, thank you. And…” He took a deep breath. “You’re on.”

Only after the fact did it occur to him that, with a kiss as the stake, then regardless of who won, the kiss was guaranteed to happen.

When they were so drunk they could barely stand, neck-and-neck at 8 tankards, they agreed to call it a draw. They stumbled out of the tavern, each with his arm around the other in a jovial, strictly-friendly no-funny-business fashion. As they turned left, Dorian reached his fingers out against the rough wood of the wall. “Rooms are th’other way,” Bull slurred.

“I just… need to… stand a minute… with my back to ths’wall,” Dorian told him. He leaned against the wall. It was cool and pleasantly stable.

“I believe I’ll take that kiss now,” Iron Bull said, no slur in his voice at all. He had been acting drunker than he was! Dorian would have slapped him, if only the courtyard would stop spinning.

“But - was a draw! Nobody won!” Dorian thought about holding his hands up in protest but the wall was so solid he didn’t want to stop touching it.

“Or we both did,” Iron Bull said. “But it’s up to you. Say no and we walk away, drinking buddies who shared nothing more than ribald tales.”

“D’you’ven know what ribald means?” An indignant tone and a drunk voice were difficult to reconcile.

Iron Bull put one hand against the wall, just above and to the right - left - Dorian’s left, Bull’s right - of Dorian’s head. “Oh,” he said, looking into Dorian’s eyes, “I know.” His breath could’ve pickled nugskin. He didn’t move. He didn’t lean in further, but he didn’t pull away. He waited.

Later, Dorian wondered how long he would have waited.

But as Dorian picked that moment to lean forward and kiss Bull - on the chin it turned out, though he had fully intended it to be full on the mouth - he would never know.

They both laughed - softly first, and then loud, guffaws racking both their bodies, until Dorian felt a wave of nausea come over him. “Oh… I need to lie down…” Before he could even step away from the wall, Bull had lifted Dorian into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

A few minutes later, as Iron Bull helped him out of his clothes (leaving his smallclothes on and simply raising an eyebrow, presumably at how silky they were) and into bed, Dorian surprised himself, whispering, “Stay.”

“Not tonight,” Bull said. He pulled the duvet under Dorian’s chin and kissed him on the forehead. “Another time, kadan, if you still wish it.” And off he went, still wearing those ridiculous pants of his. Dorian watched the muscles of his shoulder as he opened the door, noted the way he tilted his head toward the floor as he stepped through it.

This sleepless night had started with a bet. A drink. A dragon.


End file.
